


Familiarity

by RussianWitch



Series: We are not in Stockholm yet [1]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isn't familiarity supposed to breed contempt? Especially the forced kind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiarity

**Author's Note:**

> Work has now been beta'd by the wonderful Dangereuse.

He licks along the edges of scars; not thinking about the damage he is skirting.  
His tongue caresses a full bottom lip- bisected and mangled, the wrecked memory of a kissable mouth.

John doesn't close his eyes, knowing that the action will not be understood. Looking away is tantamount to hiding or running away: either way, it’s yielding to the challenge that exists solely in Bane’s head. This doesn’t mean the danger of retribution for the imagined slight is any less real. He is being trusted with something far more important here, than simply the mercenary's life, or ideals: the creature's vulnerability.

One of Bane's paw-like hands is wrapped around the bed frame, John can hear the metal protesting under the pressure of the grip. The other rests on John's thigh—seemingly relaxed, but fingers digging in hard enough that John knows that he will have deep tissue bruises later.

There is a knife on the crate serving as a night stand. The blue steel glows, almost begging to be used. It would be so easy to reach out and stab the blade right into the monster's throat. John wouldn't survive the assault, he isn’t under the illusion that he could get out of range before the mercenary could grab him before bleeding out, but at least Bane would be dead. He might even live, if he manages to distract Bane long enough to rip the IV line out of the mercenary's arm; stopping the flow of sedative keeping the big man functioning.

John follows a swollen vein in Bane’s neck with his teeth, nipping at the throat bared so easily before him. He knows that Bane doesn't see him as a threat, so he is allowed close enough that he can nose around Bane’s jugular; a strange sort of privilege. Bane is mostly silent in his pleasure, the few sounds he makes closer to growls and snarls than moans and groans. John isn't loud either, unless the sounds are ripped from him by force.

The knife is so close to his hand.

John doesn't keep his thoughts from his eyes. He could try it, lie with his face and attempt to lie with his eyes, but would be found out anyway. Bane isn't stupid, and is far more perceptive than John would prefer a criminal to be. So John doesn't bother to even try- he shows every thought he has to his captor for good or bad. He doesn't really understand why Bane lets someone who wants to kill him so close. Perhaps he gets off on the slight risk that John presents. Sitting up, he wiggles back against the hard cock that’s been resting against his ass the whole time. John teases them both by sliding against the hot flesh momentarily undecided what he wants to do with the body at his temporary disposal. Then John slides off Banes’s lap smiling at the displeased growl he gets at the action. John moves down and rubbing his face against the closest thigh like a cat marking its owner.

He licks at rough skin, following tense muscles towards the turgid flesh, nuzzling at the bush framing it. These days John can recognize the mercenary by scent: gun oil and leather, chemicals and male musk. The smell is familiar and even comforting by now. Surrounded by it John knows he is safe, where any of the other psychos in Bane's gang can still be unpredictable or simply unruly the former detective knows by now how far he will be allowed to push Bane and what to expect when he does. They have an understanding-albeit one which is mostly up to the mercenary's good will to uphold- which has given John some shred of control over his life.  
He combs his fingers through the rough pubic hair, provoking a minute thrust of the mercenary's hips in his direction and dragging out the wait for his mouth on the overheated flesh just a little. Just enough for it to have an impact when he starts to trace the vein upwards to the glistening crown of Bane’s cock with the tip of his tongue.

The metal of the bed frame screams in protest when the former detective's lips finally close around the leaking head and John would have smiled if he hadn't just filled his mouth. He moves the fingers of the hand still combing through Bane’s pubic hair, reaching for the paw digging in to the thin mattress they are on. He twines his fingers with the very same ones that have left deep bruises on his thigh; his own cock throbbing with the need for stimulation as he considers grinding against the bed. He reconsiders, straddling a tree trunk leg and humping against it shamelessly all while letting his mouth slide further down the cock filling it.

Bane radiates heat. The first time John came close enough to the mercenary he had been surprised to feel it, a sharp contrast with the cool air around them. John ruts against the steel muscles and ridges of scars, choking himself on the thick flesh in his mouth and wondering how long Bane will indulge him. John pulls off to amuse himself by licking at the shaft until the warning growl reminds him not to tease too much.  
It doesn't pay to push Bane too far since then he won't be allowed to play again, and, really, it's not like he doesn't want Bane's cock. John gives the now wet flesh one final lick, before bracing against the rock hard stomach to pull himself up in to his former position: straddling the terrorist.

Arching his back, John guides Bane’s cock to his ass slowly, sinking down on to it, letting gravity do most of the work. John hasn't stretched himself since Bane fucked him this morning, but these days John doesn't need a lot of prep with all the rutting they do. Bane seems to fuck him whenever he isn't out forging connections and plotting the downfall of civilization.

John has become addicted to the feeling of a big cock opening him up slowly and steadily. Occasionally he wonders if it's just Bane’s cock he's become addicted to, or if anyone's will do. Before Bane, being a cop hadn’t exactly encouraged experimentation and he’d always liked girls just fine.

John whimpers, gritting his teeth, sunk down fully onto the monster's cock. His eyes close as he concentrates on the feeling of fullness, and his nails dig into the terrorist's rough skin. Bane's free hand finds John's thigh again, not gripping but tracing the straining muscles as John pulls himself up. John allows his body to sink down again, starting a slow rhythm.

It's practically a miracle, helped a bit by the IV being too delicate for rough handling, that Bane has yet to get bored with John's messing around. He would have been on his back, screaming for all he's worth while getting a fucking that makes him see stars. This is far softer, not exactly gentler as Bane can't always control his strength, but far more under John's control than it was before.

Their eyes lock, John wonders when he memorized the color of the terrorist's eyes, and since when he can differentiate between the laugh and frown lines around them.

Unwilling to think more than necessary in the moment, John leans in and slows his hips; latching on to the damaged mouth in front of him again and letting sensation, heat and movement drown out his thoughts. Unexpectedly, Bane's hand leaves John's thigh to squeezes the young man's ass before traveling up John’s back to cradle John's head. It’s the same hand the former police officer has seen crush bones and crack skulls, and yet it holds John's head like delicate china, thick fingers tangling in John's hair. Sucking on the terrorist's tongue and rocking back on the thick cock in his ass let’s John finally stop thinking if only for a few moments.  
John closes his eyes, despite the danger of misunderstanding, allowing himself to be rock back on Bane’s cock, anchored by the larger man's paw on his head and surrounded by the terrorist's scent and heat.

Climax takes him by surprise, his orgasm accompanied by the sound of tearing metal and Bane's unexpected roar of completion. John doesn't know anything but darkness and a floating sensation for several long minutes, his body and brain too caught up in the intensity of it.  
When his brain starts to function again, he is sprawled alone on the rickety bed. John can't seem to find the energy to even turn his head and look for Bane, but he can hear him close by, probably dressing. When Bane appears in John’s sight again, he is fully dressed and the mask is back in place. Only the eyes remain unchanged and uncharacteristically filled with wonder.

Under such scrutiny John can't help but look away, his eyes skating down Bane’s thick neck to lock on to something he has never expected to see: A fresh, sluggishly bleeding wound in the crook of Bane's neck right above the left clavicle. The neat punctures in his rough hide stand out clearly even with his shirt and armor on. John doesn't remember ending their kiss, doesn't remember biting down and yet there the bite is, bleeding and slightly red, marring Bane's flesh.  
The former detective tried to recall if he’d ever been told what the punishment would be for attacking his captor his with teeth. He isn't sure if that was covered, he really should be trying to sit up so at least he isn’t going to get killed naked in bed, lube and come still dripping out of his ass. It isn't exactly a dignified way to go.

Bane takes his time looking down on him, far past the point John can stand not squirming. Only when the big man kneels down, his hand coming to rest on John's sweaty chest, does the former detective manage to tear his eyes away from the bite.

"Animals bite when mating to signal their ownership, however temporary, of a partner. Subconsciously or not, humans do much the same with their chosen mates. Tell me detective; have you given up on the idea of escape?"

Bane's fingers travel upwards, tracing a vein in John’s neck and then the curve of John's jaw, before coming to rest on John’s lips—almost as if the terrorist doesn’t want to hear the detective's answer.

John can do nothing but shake his head.

"Then that’s a very strange impulse you have."

The mask is cold against John's chest when Bane’s head comes to rest on it for a moment. The escaping gasses numbing John's skin.  
Bane reaches over to trace the fresh bruises now blooming on John's thigh before getting up.

"Sleep, Barsad will wake you when we need to leave."

The terrorist leaves and John is left staring up at the roof. Bane's words twist and turn in his mind, keeping him awake. The realization that Bane has been marking him, for how long and with what purpose shakes John to the core.

His hand rubbing the fresh bruises Bane has just gifted him, the former detective wonders what the hell he's supposed to do now.


End file.
